


The Arrangement, Being an Intermittent Account of the Relations Between the Principality Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley (formerly the Virtue Crowley)

by Maccabits



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Historical References, Historical meddling, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maccabits/pseuds/Maccabits
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley help each other out on the regular without stepping too far out of bounds. Along the way, they manage to interfere with and help some significant figures of history, creating art, literature and music. Oh, and Crowley might have a little bit of a crush.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	The Arrangement, Being an Intermittent Account of the Relations Between the Principality Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley (formerly the Virtue Crowley)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to katherine1753, who did the lovely art!

**1348 London, England: THE REQUEST**

Crowley hated the 14th century. He took credit for all of it, mind you, but he absolutely loathed it beginning around 1347, when the first ships with the first dead sailors docked in Messina. He hated it when the flagellation groups began to go from village to village, hitting themselves with whips three times a day, and then heading to the next village. He’d written a few actually epic memos about how it was all going down to Head Office, and he was ready for a long sleep. Until this was all over, and the waft of death was not present in every breeze.

It took Aziraphale some time to find him, nestled under a very thick down duvet, lying upon a very thick straw mattress.

“Where have you been?” Crowley woke to a flushed angel shaking him awake by the front of his nightshirt..

“Angel! Not a good idea, waking a demon like that.” He removed Aziraphale’s hand and groaned. “Don’t tell me it’s still the 14th century,” he said. “I will go back to sleep this very instant.”

“It jolly well still is the 14th century,” Aziraphale said, infuriated. “And there isn’t going to be a 15th century if we don’t hurry! The humans are dying fast, thousands - millions of them.”

“I know, Aziraphale. That’s why I’m sleeping! I thought I’d… wait it out.”

“Since you’ve been taking all the credit for this… mess, I think it’s about time you help me end this before all the humans are dead of the Black Death, which I’m sure is not part of the Divine Plan.”

Crowley propped himself up with some of the duvet, and stretched sleepily. “And what precisely is your plan to stop it. Advance science by a few thousand years?”

Aziraphale said, “Aren’t you a transportation and logistics wizard? They are still using that Appian Way you designed to get the Roman troops further afield. How about some new aqueducts. The water quality is terrible just now, not to mention the water pressure?”

“It isn’t the water pressure that’s killing off a third of Europe, Angel.” The demon yawned deeply. “Some fresh water would help, sure, but aqueducts take a long time to build, and they are short on serf power as it is.”

“Well, you need to do something! It’s simply terrible what’s happening out there.”

“I know! Why do you think I planned a century-long nap! What in Heaven do you expect me to do about it? That’s the question, Angel!”

“Something! Anything!” And with that, the angel snapped up the pillow from behind Crowley’s head and hurled it against the mudded wall.

Crowley miracled a fresh pillow, and hurled it at Aziraphale’s retreating figure.

**MIRACLE 2331: Quarantine**

CROWLEY sits with a Croatian nobleman, PREDISLAV, in a cold stone antechamber. They are drinking something expensive that CROWLEY has provided. The nobleman is drunk-ish, and has his arm draped companionably about CROWLEY’S shoulders.

PREDISLAV walks over to a beautiful book, bound in dyed green leather.

PREDISLAV  
I trust you, my friend. But why 40 days? Is it a magical number?

CROWLEY, casually  
Well, we’re trying to eliminate the Blue Sickness, aren’t we? And everyone knows the number 40 is white?

PREDISLAV, confused  
It is?

CROWLEY, drawling:  
Weeell, yes, it is rather. In any case, this time will be more than enough to ensure visitors are safe to enter your fair port. And you’ve got these convenient little islands to keep people on - not many cities have those. Think of poor Venice!

PREDISLAV  
Poor Venice, yes. Well, Ragusa can best Venice in many things. But how will we compete if we make merchants wait 40 days, when Venice - Venice has no waiting period?

CROWLEY  
Predislav, my good man, trust me. When Venice is awash in dead bodies, and you have not lost a single street in your city center, there will be no talk of competition. Ragusa will set the standard for the rest of the maritime cities.

PREDISLAV, crossing himself  
May not a soul perish of the Blue Sickness here!

CROWLEY  
Would you mind not doing that?

PREDISLAV looks at him curiously.

**DENOUEMENT: Black Death**

Aziraphale put some butter on a piece of thick bread, took a bite, and said, “Well?”

“Well? Well? Where are my thanks? My laudatios for a job well done, crisis averted, savior of humans et. al.?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, mouth full. Crowley waited expectantly.

Aziraphale swallowed and said, “When will you visit Venice? Pisa? Ancona?”

“Not bloody likely!” the demon threw back. “I’m not suffering on a Plague ship!”

“How will the other cities adopt the quarantine laws then? Who is going to explain it to them?”

“I thought you might,” the demon said, bluntly. “You are the Principality, protector of nations. Shouldn’t you be… communicating with nations?”

“I hardly think that demons should be an expert on angelic distribution of duties.” And Aziraphale took a forceful bite of toast.

**1431 Roen, France: THE REQUEST**

“I don’t kill kids,” Crowley said, as if that were any explanation. Or as if this were news.  
Aziraphale opened his mouth, about to speak, and Crowley said again, “No kids, nope.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale said finally. “I think it may be part of the Ineffa-”

Crowley just looked at him. Aziraphale closed his mouth again.

“I’ve had my orders, and I think we need to be creative.”

“They aren’t just your orders though, are they? I mean, she’s one of ours, and a martyrdom is sure to follow, isn’t it? So it’s really one for our side. Michael’s been prepping her for years now.” The angel fussed over a non-existent wrinkle on his velvet trousers.

“Well, not guaranteed on your side. She’s so young, and I haven’t had my go at her - yet,” he said, glumly. “But if we don’t do something, soon, I’ll have to, won’t I?”

“What should we do?” the angel asked.

“I was hoping you might have an idea,” Crowley said, hopefully.

Aziraphale snorted. “ I’ve been the brains of this operation for some time now, haven’t I, Crowley?”

“Shut up,” Crowley said.

**TEMPTATION 2117: A Martyrdom**

A cold and filthy cell surrounds her. She is very young, with her hair cut short around her neck and collar. Dressed in a shapeless tunic, the sort worn under armor, she sits on the floor, with her head resting on her knees. Two guards, English, are in the room with her.

JOAN, dully  
The Lord will not let you touch me.

GUARD, laughing  
The Lord cares not for the likes of you, witch. Screwing you would be ignored by our Father - nay, encouraged! (He kicks at her knees, and her head jerks up. He bends toward her, as if to pull her up.) Guy! Help me get this bitch upright!

SECOND GUARD bends down on level with the FIRST GUARD, and then makes a motion with his head. The GUARD is frozen in place.

SECOND GUARD shakes off his cloak, revealing a spotless white tunic. JOAN immediately bends.

JOAN  
My Lord!

AZIRAPHALE  
Just a Principality, I’m afraid. And we haven’t much time. I’ve come to save you, but you will have to trust me. It’s all going to be rather harrowing, I’m afraid.

JOAN, with her eyes downcast  
I know from whence you came, and I shall follow you anywhere.

AZIRAPHALE, a little uncomfortable, but basking in the adoration, nonetheless  
My dear, we have to get you out of here. You need to recant.

JOAN, bolting upright  
Never!

AZIRAPHALE  
Well, not recant, just agree to put the dress back on and that you never heard the voices. (adding hastily) Just for a bit! A bit!

JOAN  
You know that I hear the voices, angelic lord, I see and hear you now, don’t I?

AZIRAPHALE  
I know, young person, I know. But I wish to rescue you, and to do that, we must be cunning.

JOAN  
Why must we? Don’t you have the strength and cunning of 100 men?

AZIRAPHALE, modestly  
I do. But we must also be cunning, we want you to escape in secret.

JOAN, laughing  
There is not a man, woman or child in France who does not know my countenance by reputation. I must conquer, not escape.

CROWLEY, appearing out of the shadows, almost as if he materialized into thin air  
You’ve already conquered. It’s enough, girl, enough.

JOAN approaches him, fascinated, then drops to her knees and kisses his feet  
Lord, I am blessed indeed. Your beauty, the purity etched along your face, and your sweet fragrance far surpasses that of Michael. You must rank high indeed, among the heavenly hosts.

CROWLEY, outraged  
WHAT?

AZIRAPHALE, outraged:  
WHAT?

JOAN, still addressing CROWLEY  
Oh, Lord, please tell me your bidding.

AZIRAPHALE, irritatedly  
For Heaven’s Sake, you should be listening to me.

CROWLEY  
Listen to the angel, young human. He’s doing the planning for this particular mission.

AZIRAPHALE, to JOAN  
You’ve accomplished your mission - everything the voices have been telling you, yes? Michael and Catherine and the rest?

JOAN, doubtfully  
Well, yes. The English are out of France, but -

AZIRAPHALE, a trifle severely  
But what? Now we need to get you out of here. If you agree to their terms - then resume your activities - they will burn you at the stake.

JOAN  
And that is the Lord’s will, that I martyr myself?

CROWLEY, archly  
The Lord alone knows the Lord’s will, but it is my will that you be saved, and hidden in a corner of France somewhere, free to someday marry a nice blacksmith and have some babies, if that be YOUR will.

JOAN, blushing a little  
How will you angels propose to save me from the fire in front of the thousands who will surely gather?

AZIRAPHALE, seizing his chance  
We are going to spirit you away, and then we are going to create an apparition of you that will be burnt.  
Taking a sidelong glance at Crowley.  
Someone who doesn’t mind a little fire lapping at their feet.

CROWLEY, suspiciously kindly:  
But first you must recant the voices. We’ve got to get this trial going. And then (he smiles wickedly) you must relapse.

JOAN  
I shall obey you, my Lord.

CROWLEY  
Well then, relax please! You’re putting me off!

AZIRAPHALE with a colossal rolling of the eyes  
She’s putting YOU off?

**DENOUEMENT: A Martyrdom**

The trial was a hoot, Aziraphale thought. Joan was full of bon mots, and it was most entertaining to see all these dimwits outshone by her wit and her grace. But it was really time to get things in place. The switch would have to be done very carefully - both Heaven and Hell were watching, so they couldn’t afford to screw this one up.

Both he and Crowley had grown fond of the girl over the days in which the trial had dragged on. He liked to think she had grown as fond of him as she initially was of Crowley. Fond enough, anyway, that when he handed her fresh clothes and turned his back upon her so that she might change, she did so without hesitation. She handed her filthy rags back to him.

“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll be needing those for your doppelganger.”

“And who might that be,” she said, a touch mischievously. Hope had done wonders for her sense of humor. He hoped she did find a blacksmith - or someone - to bring out all the joy she had missed in her childhood, fighting the English and listening to Michael.

“You’ll see,” he said, just as mischievously, and winked, shocking himself.

Crowley had done his work well. It wasn’t just the filthy tunic, but he had made his hair a strawberry blond, and conjured his eyes into a blue. He was channeling his most angelic self, and looked - almost - like Joan. If he concentrated very, very hard, he could keep the illusion going long enough for the smoke and fire to cover the rest. He surveyed the crowd - filthy, tattered rags, not so different than the apparel he was sporting. They were restive, he noticed, and not all of the same mind. He saw a lot of gazes that looked with pity upon Joan - upon him, really - and he focused on those, rather than the faces that were unreserved in their hatred. He began to smell smoke, and a murmur arose from the crowd. He kept his head bowed at a strange angle, concentrating on how the scene ought to look to humans - plus a little extra finish for the ending.  
As a demon, he’d watched his share of immolations. Both on earth and down Below. He really hated them. Reminded him too much of his own slow-dive, the look on people’s faces when they first felt the flames. He wondered how long his face had held that look before he… got used to it. If the physical form didn’t give out, one can get used to most things, he reflected, even the everlasting fires of Tartarus.

But his Joan couldn’t look as if she was used to it. Yet, he still wanted to reflect her stoic spirit and her unshakeable resolve. None of the 10,000 in the crowd would be able to say that she did not go bravely, not if he had anything to do with it. He moved his face into a look of what he hoped looked like was saintly suffering. Aziraphale owed him for this.

Joan’s hair was shorn, a rough cloth hood covered her forehead, her hands in her sleeves. She watched Crowley from the crowd, not close enough to see the expression on his face, but his posture, as much as one could have posture while being tied to a flaming stake, was upright. Joan could make out the profile of a chin held aloft, what she supposed her chin looked like when she set her mind to her appointed task. It sent a shiver down her spine. She hoped she was doing the right thing in listening to these angels; of course she must be.

It did feel something like victory, knowing these were cheering for her end, when they were, in fact, cheering on the performance of an incorruptible angel who had shown himself the kindest, the most dear of beings.

She would never find a blacksmith like him, that was for certain. Joan did not pretend to understand the ways of angels, but the other angel had drawn the same conclusion she had about this one’s superiority; she knew it in her bones. He was standing next to her, watching the burning figure intently. She felt certain he could see things invisible to her, perhaps a host of angels, circling above.

Impulsively, she took his hand.“He’s all right, thanks be to our Lord,” she said, “but it is a quite convincing act.” She shivered suddenly.

Aziraphale squeezed her hand back, briefly, before dropping it back to his side. ”Let’s hope it is, dear,” and shook his head.

He could feel the feelings of the thousands within the crowd, and it was making him queasy. Joan may be on his side, but many here were veering sharply toward the other direction. Mobs. An anathema to Good, there was no doubt of that. If Crowley spun it right to his Head Office, he could claim many souls won for Satan.

Crowley continued to burn. He estimated he needed to be up there for another 32 minutes, before he could pull the trick he planned to pull. It took a long time for a human body to burn. Not as long as it took for a human soul to burn, but a long time nonetheless. It had to be just right, if he was to convince his side. And so he blazed on.

Aziraphale wished Crowley would get on with it already, though the demon undoubtedly knew what he was doing. This was too hard to watch, too hard. After all, it wasn’t just a human up there who would soon end up in Heaven, where things would be lovely again.

Almost as one, the crowd suddenly drew a breath. Aziraphale refocused his attention to the figure of Crowley, which had progressed to grotesqueness, and was completely blackened. All of a sudden, like a trick of a wandering jester, a cloud of ash ascended, spreading like a cloud over the crowd, dusting them in a dark grey powder. And the bones, with a smatter of something else still holding them loosely together, dangled off the stake. A scream from near the front could be heard. And a moment later, Aziraphale and Joan could hear the murmurs.

“A beating heart! A beating heart!” The words were taken up into a sort of chant, making its way to the thousands at the rear.

**1493 Florence, Italy: THE REQUEST**

Crowley rubbed himself under the chin with long fingers. Aziraphale knew the tell; he knew all the tells. Crowley was ready to spring something on him.

“Angel, it’s no great thing, just a sort of artistic temptation. The popes will thank you for it, I promise.”

“Not all of the Popes are ours, you know that, Crowley. Grave snatching! Surely you don’t expect me to do the dirty work myself!”

“Of course not, Angel,” Crowley said emphatically, reassuringly. “I just need you to have a little chat with the boy, reassure him that his soul won’t be prevented from damnation by a little poking and prodding.”

“Aren’t you two great friends already? Why not have that conversation with him yourself?”

It was a good question. Crowley answered as casually as he could.

“I think you might be a little better with the pragmatics for this one. Finding office space, so to speak.”

“Mmm.”

**TEMPTATION 2398: A Church is Repurposed**

A young man, or perhaps still just a boy, sits on a simple stool. His forearms are muscular, his face intelligent, the chin, stubborn. A very blond middle-aged man in a priest’s frock sits across from him, speaking intently.

AZIRAPHALE  
Dear, you have a God-given talent. And you are doing important work for the Church itself. I’m not telling you that you must, but I’m saying that you ought not to discount it. For the church and for Art itself. You, more than most, know the two are intertwined.

BOY  
When I carve, I feel closest to God himself. But how closely are the two intertwined? Enough to risk my everlasting soul?

AZIRAPHALE  
Very closely, dear. I’ll tell you what. Instead of getting your hands dirty with the details, what if I arranged it so it was just waiting for you… in the church.

BOY  
In San Spiritus? That could never happen.

AZIRAPHALE  
We want that crucifix very badly. We want it reflect our Lord’s suffering not only beautifully, but perfectly. I don’t know about you, but I believe that perfection is truth, or at least a version of it.

BOY, fervently  
As do I.

AZIRAPHALE  
Let me speak with Father Giuseppe. I think we may be able to find a room in the chapel for you to slip into. I’ll see if he can find the… volunteers. If it’s all arranged, will you consider it?

BOY  
Father Azira, I will give prayerful consideration to it.

AZIRAPHALE, patting the boy’s shoulder gently  
Good, Michelangelo. I cannot wait to see the crucifix that only you could carve.

**DENOUEMENT: The Crucifix of Santa Maria del Santo Spirito**

“It’s beautiful. For a man, nailed to two sticks. Much more beautiful than the real event played out, eh, Angel?”

Aziraphale nodded. He needed no representation to remember that awful day. “Well,” he said tiredly. “Temptation accomplished, I suppose.”

“Not without a great deal of meddling from you,” Crowley groused. “Filling his head with ideas of divinity and art. He’s a nice boy who thinks of nothing but Plato and the Good already. Did you really have to burden him with Divinity enacted by Artist? That’s a lot of weight to put on an apprentice who adds the curlicues to altars! I was just trying to get the statues a bit convincingly sexy.”

“I wouldn’t be a Principality, if I didn’t connect the two,” Aziraphale said back spiritedly. “You can’t expect me to work against my nature in this…”

“Arrangement,” Crowley supplied, quietly. “And your nature is what made you perfect for this.”

“Don’t make me feel worked upon, manipulated to do this,” Aziraphale snapped. “He is simply admiring God’s handiwork… intimately. There is nothing wrong with what the boy plans to do. Not unless he makes it wrong. It may even go as credit to my side.”

“I agree,” Crowley said, thoughtfully. “I am quite fond of Michelangelo, and I rather don’t think it’s going to be wrong or go wrong. It just might look a little wrong, is all. Which is all I need to please my side.” And he shot an inquiring glance at the angel. “Would you like to dine at mine tonight? A saffron shipment just came in and I suspect a pie is already in the making by the cook.”

“Because pie is your favorite,” Aziraphale said, sarcastically.

“Because. Pie. Is. My. Favorite.” Crowley replied, slowly and sweetly.

**1658 London, England: THE REQUEST**

“It’s simple,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve written it out already. All I need you to do is to deliver the message. It’s quite good, if I do say so myself,” he said. “You might even be entertained. Personal history and so forth.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Crowley muttered. “So you want me to slip into the old man’s rooms and whisper in his ear every night - that’s it? Because that sounds properly creepy. Classic demon.”

“Mind you, don’t do it creepily, Crowley. Do it gently. He’s old, and ill, and, well, the dear thing has had a hard life,” Aziraphale cautioned.

The demon peered at the book written carefully in Aziraphale’s hand, chock-full of curlicues and flourishes. “Your usual methods, I see,” he said.

“My usual methods,” Aziraphale nodded once, but vigorously.

“The pen is mightier than the sword - than your flaming sword ever was, anyway.” Crowley grinned wide.

“I rather like that - the first part, anyway,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll use that someday.”

“Umm… this is a bit long. How much do I read each night?”

“Oh, about 40 lines,” the angel said, a bit too cheerfully.

“But … but there are 10,000 lines here! I’ll be at this for years! Bedside of an old man! I have young, fresh souls to tempt. I’ll get out of practice.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Don’t forget, you owe me.”

“Angel, remind me why you can’t do this yourself? It seems right up your alley, comforting sick old men and such.” Crowley shifted his stance so he could peer at the angel full in the face.

“There’s something else I have to do.”

“Does it involve eating apple tarts?” the demon asked suspiciously.

“I’m not going to eat apple tarts every night for five years, Crowley, don’t be ridiculous. I do need some variation.” The angel stood up. “I have other heavenly business to attend to. This particular task is one of my own … initiatives.”

“I see,” said Crowley, archly. “All right, all right,” he nodded with assent, and was rewarded with an angelic smile. With Aziraphale there really was no other kind.

**MIRACLE 3227: A Poem**

MILTON lays in bed, beneath thick layers of white tick bedding. A beautiful, angular, fire-haired woman sits next to him on the edge of the bed, whispering in his ear.  
Bent so near, she speaks rhythmically, slowly. She begins, over and over again, repeating the words. She recites from memory, there is no paper in her hands.

CROWLEY  
“A mind not to be changed by place or time.  
The mind is its own place, and in itself  
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.”

As the sun begins to come in through the window, a smile creeps on the man’s face, his eyes still closed. The woman stops her recitation and deftly, quickly exits through the window. She has done this before. Moments later, another woman enters the room, about the same age as the flame-haired woman. The Old Man smiles in the direction of the woman, but does not meet her eyes. He is blind.

MILTON  
Quick Mary, the quill and paper. Urania has returned!

He begins reciting lines to her, the same ones CROWLEY had been reciting. MARY’s hands move quickly at first, then taper off. She looks up and interrupts MILTON.

MARY  
Father - these words, they disturb me. They are full of… power. I am moved by them, as I am always moved by your poetry, but they seem too knowing, too bold.

MILTON  
These are the words straight from Urania, dear girl. What would you have me do, deign to alter divine inspiration itself?

MARY, doubtfully  
Of course not, but… how will such words be received, Father? Will they accomplish all that you wish?

MILTON  
I wish to tell the truth.

MARY  
There are many divine truths, Father - are you sure this is the particular truth you wish to tell? For it begs me to stand in Satan himself’s place, and consider his own vantage.

MILTON  
God will win you back in the future pentameters, I promise. Now, may we continue?

MARY, demurely  
Of course, Father.

**DENOUEMENT: The Reviews Are In**

Crowley was watching the children in the street playing a particularly stupid game with a hoop and a stick. He was turning it into a game for himself by making the hoop change directions suddenly just as the largest child went to propel it forward, so that he fell over his feet. Crowley gave himself a point every time the child fell into the sewage pile. The game was just getting good when he felt a presence beside him.

Without removing his concentration from the game, Crowley murmured, “Hullo, Angel.”

“Greetings, Crowley,” he said formally.

And just like that, Crowley knew he was in trouble. He looked over at the angel, who was radiating disapproval. Aziraphale pulled out a leatherbound book from behind his back. Crowley had the distinct feeling he was about to get lectured. ‘Paradise Lost,’ read the volume title. Fuck. Well, it was only a matter of time.

“Well, you practically signed on as co-author! He lists an alluring redhead named Urania in the credits who came to visit him each night! Of all the nonsense!”

“Muse of astronomical arts - rather clever, I thought,” the demon said mildly.

“Oh, don’t get me started on clever!” Aziraphale was winding up. “I would like to turn your attention to the beginning of Book IV, Line 75:

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;  
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep  
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,  
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n.  
O then at last relent! is there no place  
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?

The angel read sententiously, sounding for all the world like a Bolognese professor. “Don’t you think it’s a bit… self-revelatory?”

Aziraphale could have sworn that Crowley blushed a bit before he waved his hand dismissively. “It’s just a bit of tweaking, Angel. Just to encourage people to get to your bits.”

Aziraphale continued inexorably, “Just how do you imagine I should explain this to Head Office? How it’s a triumph when Lucifer is impossibly thoughtful and charming and She is impossibly dull? In your version, your side got all the best lines!”

Crowley smiled. “It’s not bad, is it? I didn’t give all those lines to the human, I just gave him a few… suggestions. He went from there. I haven’t the imagination; we both know Lucifer was never that charming.”

“I don’t think Lucifer is the inspiration for this particular iteration,” Aziraphale said, with an arched brow.

“You have to stop flattering me like this, angel. First the quality of my verse, now my charm…” Crowley gave a wide grin, and something close to a wink.

“I’m quite serious. How am I to explain this to Gabriel?”

“Easy, easy. It’s going to have people talking for centuries. You know, dynamic antagonist vs. protagonist. ‘Paradise Lost’ is going to be controversial, and that’s why people are going to talk about it. Nobody talked about ‘Paradiso’! They were all talking about ‘Inferno’! No one gives a toss about celestial spheres and harmony. It doesn’t make for good epic.”

Aziraphale considered. As usual, the wily serpent made a strong case. Though he would never admit it, Crowley’s additions to his original were good. Quite good. They might have quite a bestseller on their hands, and Heaven got so few of those. Except for the one, of course.

“I’ll figure out some way to explain it,” he said. “But that’s quite enough ‘winging it’ when I give you instructions!”

“Of course,” Crowley said demurely.

**1828 London, England: THE REQUEST**

“He. Is. Coming.” Aziraphale said as soon as the demon sat down. He was practically sparkling around the eyes.

“Again? Didn’t He already come the once?” Crowley asked, pointing upwards, a little too wide-eyed.

“Not Him!” A dramatic eye-roll ensues, and the angel pulled a lacy handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Paganini!”

“Are you crying, Angel? Wha- What’s happened?”

“He is just a revelation! With all the gifts of heaven, but an earthly energy. His violin playing is just... transporting. I went to Genoa, just to see him, and it was absolutely worth it. The best violinist ever to have graced this earth!”

Crowley smiled. “I’ll take a bit of credit for that.”

Aziraphale’s smile froze. “He’s not… your work, is he? There was that rumor that he… Oh Crowley, why must you take all…”

“The good ones, Angel? You know we get all the best musicians.”

“Ohh... I just can’t bear it.”

Aziraphale’s lower lip began to twitch, so Crowley said, brightly, “Not to worry, Angel. He didn’t sell his soul for his talents, if that’s what you’re concerned about. But he is awfully influential just now, sort of a … lifestyle promoter. I’ve been very involved with his publicity campaign. Spreading the word.” He gestured expansively, vaguely into the air with his long arms.

Aziraphale was pouting, having none of it. Crowley continued, quickly. “I’m expecting to be asked to perform a temptation on him, you know, once he gets here. Would you like to perform it… for me?”

“Not if it means further jeopardizing his eternal soul!” Aziraphale, indignant, was wringing his handkerchief. Crowley found his sincerity, as he always did, equally endearing and perplexing. None of the other angels seemed so… wrapped up in human affairs. Maybe that was just the nature of being a Principality.

“No, no. More of a … chance to meet him, and who knows, maybe your angelic presence will make the lad reconsider his worldly ways.” Crowley smiled very widely, Aziraphale fluttered slightly, and peace at the dinner table was restored.

**TEMPTATION 4332: The Straight and Narrow**

A gaunt figure sits alone in the bar of the Hotel Sabloniere, with a drink in hand. He is gaunt, with an aquiline nose, a prominent forehead and a hooded gaze. He is soon joined by a blonde man, a little shorter, dressed in velvet. The man smiles unabashedly.

AZIRAPHALE, doffing his hat  
Dottore Paganini, what an honor it is to…

PAGANINI, not unkindly:  
Please leave me, Sir Englishman. I have had enough of adulation today.

AZIRAPHALE  
While an admirer, I am not a…

PAGANINI  
Enough! He moves as if to leave with his drink

AZIRAPHALE, straightening up to attain a few extra mysterious inches, and thunders  
I am not a Paganini fanatic, sir! I have been sent to assist!

PAGANINI, looking at him properly  
Assist with what? Had Urbani sent you?

AZIRAPHALE, uncomfortable  
As a matter of fact, in a way he has. I am here to encourage you, about your tour, here in England. If you can see your way, to well, drink a little less, it will go rather well.

PAGANINI  
How dare you? Who do you think you are?  
AZIRAPHALE  
A friend of a celebrated man. And I do love the way you play. It’s heavenly, and you must trust me on this, I’m something of an expert.

PAGANINI  
I drink because it hurts, this body just now. I didn’t ask to be like this, so different. I think because I’m different, this way (gesturing to his body, his long fingers, elongated legs), that I hurt.

AZIRAPHALE, gently  
All of us hurt, to be different. I, as well. He smiles an anxious smile. But I see that God blessed you with certain physical gifts, gifts which no doubt help you to be the marvel you are. Have you tried the “Azira-Cure”? It’s all the rage in England!

PAGANINI  
So you’re a seller of tonics. I might have known.

AZIRAPHALE  
Absolutely not. Just try it. It’s not a drug and not a poison, just a tincture of my own making.  
He pours a drop of something clear in the violinist’s drink. As PAGANINI sips, AZIRAPHALE gestures upward with his hand.  
Give it a minute sir, so that it may take effect. That’s all I ask.

PAGANINI  
What is your relationship to Urbani?

AZIRAPHALE  
He is my… business associate. We have a contract… of sorts.

PAGANINI  
He’s a clever fellow.

AZIRAPHALE, musing  
You really think so? I suppose he has his moments.

PAGANINI  
My joints are feeling better. What is in this tincture?

AZIRAPHALE  
I’ll leave some with Urbani. Just go easy on the liquor, gambling and women, yes? It will help. And I’ll see you at your show this evening.

PAGANINI  
Sir, it’s sold out.

AZIRAPHALE, smiling  
My companion has obtained tickets.

DENOUEMENT: The Performance

Aziraphale is wearing a cream waistcoat, with ivory buttons, beneath a heavy velvet frock coat, black as befits the theater. Crowley is the height of elegance and fashion; tight britches, a dark, heavy cloak, black on black. They both give a slight nod in acknowledgment of mutual elegance attained.

“Well, this is going to be rather lovely,” Aziraphale says enthusiastically, as they begin a companionable walk towards the theater. “I have to say, that was the easiest temptation you’ve ever asked of me. Not a temptation at all, really. Which is why I agreed so readily. It is a virtue to tempt someone into sobriety and good habits!”

“Thank you, Angel,” Crowley glances out of the corner of his eye. “It’s instrumental that Paganini be well for this tour. I’ve put a lot of effort into this plan. Hell’s going to love it.”

“And what is this plan, exactly, other than you serving as tour manager for a violin prodigy?” Aziraphale was truly curious. Crowley’s plans got so convoluted sometimes, that even he lost track of the thread of evil that was supposed to be running through it all. Made thwarting it that much more difficult.

“I’m inventing a celebrity,” Crowley said.

“A celebrite?” As in the French?”

“French? Well, someone might be, French, I s’pose,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “I’m inventing the idea of a “celebrity.” Someone whom everyone recognizes, whom everyone adores or hates or has any strong feeling about. I think it’s going to go over very well in Hell.”

“Sounds like just creating a false idol,” Aziraphale said, a bit primly.

“Even better,” Crowley said. “An icon.”

“However are you going to do that?”

“I’ve already done it, Angel. Weren’t you rather excited to hear Paganini was coming to your local theater haunt? Well, the humans are even more excited. It’s Paganini-fever out there. And there’ll be more celebrities where he came from.”

“Genoa?”

“Not Genoa! Well, maybe Genoa! But you know what I mean. There are going to be more and more celebrities - all a distraction. And it all started with a little whisper in the ears of the English press, planting a few fainting ladies and gentlemen in the audience… and celebrity is born.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment; he was rather sorry he asked. He didn’t really want to hear about infernal plans, even if it was helpful to thwarting them. And he had no idea how to thwart this particular idea, it seemed rather likely to succeed, based on how humans were.

He finally settled for remarking, as they neared the theater entrance, “I rather like Paganini and my hope remains that your side doesn’t claim him at the last, but I fear…”

“Let’s just enjoy the music, Angel,” the demon said, softly, crossing his legs. An inexpressible yearning poured out of the instrument, impossible to describe, impossible not to feel. What a thing it was to experience it with Aziraphale himself beside him.

“You like it too, don’t you,” Aziraphale said, fondly.

“Oh, I think we both are susceptible to a caprice now and again.” He squeezed the Angel’s hand for just an instant. The Angel had the good sense to blush.

**1927 Bloomsbury, England:** **THE REQUEST**

Aziraphale poured the tea. He always played Mother, and he could make Crowley a better cuppa than Crowley had ever made for himself. He didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to ask. But he needed a favor.

“Crowley,” he began, formally, remotely. Aziraphale wanted to keep this communication - the first since their fracas 60 years before - simple, manageable.

“Yes, Angel?” Crowley matched him note for note and then added a touch of dismissiveness to boot. He could smell a work request in the air and he wished that it would have been anything but that which drew Aziraphale to him today, here, making tea.

“Do you know of a Virginia Woolf?” the angel began.

“Yes.” Crowley was suddenly alert.

“Would you mind --”

“Not at all,” Crowley said, and took a sip.

“Do you need any direction, any --”

“Not at all,” Crowley said haughtily, and just like that, he was away.

**MIRACLE 5781 - Tea is Had**

A drawing room in an English cottage. A beautiful redhead and a spiritually radiant brunette sit before a fire. Empty tea cups sit next to each. So do half-full bourbon glasses.

VIRGINIA, a little tipsily  
You’ve quite lowered my defenses, Antonia. Or perhaps it’s the bourbon.

CROWLEY, throwing back her drink and pouring another  
I hope it’s a bit of both. It’s only that you looked so solemn when I was announced. Leonard won’t begrudge us sampling his gift, will he?

VIRGINIA  
Leonard begrudges me very little, I’m afraid. Too little.

CROWLEY  
And yet I suspect there is some matter of the heart. The rapidity of bourbon is suggestive.

VIRGINIA, pouring herself another  
I might say the same of you, Antonia. Misery seeks company. (Takes a swallow.) You first.

CROWLEY, sips thoughtfully  
Oh, I don’t know. (Flops onto a chair, heels touching the ground, toes out in a most unladylike fashion. The pose delights Virginia.) Mine is an angel. An angel I regularly irritate. We’re not speaking just now.

VIRGINIA  
How did you meet?

CROWLEY  
A long time ago. I mean a long, long, time ago. It was a beautiful garden. I was only visiting, but he - he lived there for awhile. I belonged to another, and so did he. But over time… well, we still belong to others. (CROWLEY drains her drink.)

VIRGINIA nods, wisely, sadly  
My story is similar. At first, I was hesitant to have lunch with… here.

She finishes heavily on the last word, looks over at CROWLEY, who shows no reaction whatsoever, as if she had expected such.

I was married and she was married. But slowly, over time, over letters and lunches - and gardens, it became more urgent. And we like being married to our husbands, I could no more exist without Leonard than I could without air. Vita’s husband is her best friend, her confidant, and she has a little more freedom than I do both within her marriage and in respect to us and…

CROWLEY  
She’s not afraid to use it?

VIRGINIA  
Precisely. There is so much to her - she is so much more than what our Age imagines when they say, “woman.” She contains multitudes, as Whitman would say. I have no wish to limit her in any way, only to watch her blaze. And yet… her adventures sometimes fill me with jealousy and unease. That may be the place in which I was located when you stopped by.

CROWLEY  
Do you write about it? I mean, your reputation precedes you, of course.

VIRGINIA  
Do you mean, a novel? Something of substance?

CROWLEY, leaning forward  
Yes, that is what I mean. Work is the best antidote to sorrow, as a good friend of mine once said.

VIRGINIA, flatly  
I think no one would stand for it. Including our husbands. Or I’d have to dress and obfuscate the story in such a whirl of underclothing all shape would be lost.

CROWLEY, a little drunk by now, has been listening, head between hands, most attentively. She suddenly speaks up.

I’d like to tell you a little story, Virginia Woolf. Just a little fairy story, mind you, but I think it may be a wellspring of inspiration for you. Once upon a time there was a - let’s call them a person. A person who loved an angel. That person could change into another person on the outside … but they still loved that angel. Maybe the angel loved that person, maybe they didn’t. But that person bounced through all of time, still loving that angel, still having adventures. It was so fantastical, the life of this person who was unchanged, but changed by their angel, that it was beyond reproach. No one could label it and so they could not condemn it.

CROWLEY says that last part a little raggedly. Virginia instinctively takes Crowley’s hand and holds it. Crowley squeeze back.

**DENOUEMENT - Aziraphale is Afraid of Virginia Woolf**

Crowley’s telephone rings, and he jumps. He’s still getting used to it, but he quite likes it. The tempting possibilities are endless, really. Oh, and he’s a little drunk, just a little.

“Yes,” he drawls aristocratically, just as he’s practiced.

“It’s Aziraphale,” says the unmistakable voice at the other end. “I’ve finished ‘Orlando’.”

“And we’ve got to speak on the telephone about it rather than meet like decent people do, at a tea shop?” He’s being rather rude, but Crowley feels this particular masterpiece deserves the ritual of some cucumber sandwiches as reward, at the very least.

“I thought it best,” Aziraphale says, adding no explanation. “That was quite the volume,” he begins brightly. “I like the part about the goose.”

“Did you?” Crowley says coldly.

“It was a very creative way to help Virginia,” Aziraphale continues, ignoring the coolness. “An apt story to celebrate her love without revealing it. Wherever did you get the idea?”

“Where did I get the …. Angel. What. Are. You. - Never mind. Just, never mind. Miracle accomplished, we’ve got Virginia back on track, let’s put one down for Heaven, yes?”

“Well, yes. I did get your paperwork the other day, so I’m wrapping things up on my end for the Head Office. It was very inspired work, Crowley.”

“Watch your language - not inspired! I think I know these humans better than you do, if I’m honest,” Crowley admitted. “This one was very easy to talk to, but not easy to win to my side, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” the angel said ruefully. “Some of the easiest ones to talk to for me seem to be on your side.”

Crowley thought that this chattiness on Aziraphale’s part boded well. “You didn’t see anything familiar about ‘Orlando’?” he asked.

“Besides waterfowl?” the angel asked.

Crowley began quoting, darkly: “‘But how to speak to a man who does not see you? Who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of the sea instead?”

“What?” The angel asked, simply, carefully, his voice a crackle over the lines.

Crowley heaved a sigh that would never travel over the phone lines. “Until next time, Angel,” he said. “You owe me one.”

“That I do,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully, as he placed the gold-toned receiver back on the carriage. He thought that perhaps he should read ‘Orlando’ again. Just for context.

**1945 Altaussee, Austria: THE REQUEST**

“No convincing needed. Not another word.”

Aziraphale’s plump lips puckered together like a chubby goldfish. It was distracting. “You had me at Michelangelo and Madonna!”

The tone had shifted to unbridled affection, Crowley noticed from a less drunken-corner of his mind. That book rescue of Aziraphale’s prophecy collection had paid off, there was no doubt.

“Excellent, excellent,” Crowley rubs his hands together gleefully. “To Altaussee?”

“To Altaussee. Shall we sober up?” The angel summoned a look of concentration.

“I suppose we must.” Crowley summoned the same look.

MIRACLE/TEMPTATION: Nazi Treasure Hunting

CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE are wearing rather suspiciously clean miners’ overalls. They are seated at a table, across from a man wearing the uniform of a high-ranking Nazi officer. The wool smells of sweat. The man is August EIGRUBER, high-ranking Nazi official who is stationed near Altaussee. He has been tasked with protecting Hitler’s art treasures, worth billions of dollars. Or blowing them up, if the Nazi’s don’t prevail. It doesn’t look like they are going to prevail.

AZIRAPHALE, formally  
Brigadefuhrer, thank you for granting us this brief meeting.

EIGRUBER  
I would be foolish not to listen to the words of the mine’s most experienced engineers. And your fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers, too, I understand. The families of Altaussee are the masters of these mines. And you not only engineers, but also patriots! The only ones to step forward to assist carrying out the Fuhrer’s instructions!

CROWLEY, smoothly  
The Brigadefuhrer is too kind.

CROWLEY unrolls a thick roll of blueprints, showing the vast complex of mineshafts.

Our recommendations are of prime importance to fulfilling the Fuhrer’s wishes for the mines. We need additional charges, (pointing) here, here and here.

AZIRAPHALE nods sagely

EIGRUBER  
I will admit I do not understand, my good fellows. I am no mining engineer, but as you know, I have my own engineering credentials, and they suggest that the significant amount of dynamite we have here is more than enough to permanently destroy these passageways. More seems wasteful and potentially damaging to the countryside, no?

CROWLEY, pointing to the inner, largest chamber  
Sir, we believe that given the numerous entry points to the mine due to the unique and natural features of this site, your best chance of success is to not ‘put all your dynamite in one cavern,” so to speak. If we have smaller charges at each of the entrances, in addition to the main cavern, we can then make sure that even if there is partial failure to destroy all the … ahem… contents, they will be utterly inaccessible to any… interlopers.

AZIRAPHALE looks over at CROWLEY in admiration at the explanation. EIGRUBER also nods.

EIGRUBER  
Of course this is all theoretical - ultimately we will triumph. But should there be any complications...

AZIRAPHALE, quickly  
Of course. Of course! We are merely suggesting having them at the ready near the entrances. This will reassure the Fuhrer that you are taking all of his directives most seriously!

EIGRUBER  
And you would both be willing to oversee this personally? My trust in the other mine officials is not what it was.

CROWLEY, with a wide smile  
Sir, we are counting on your personally mentioning our work to the Fuhrer after this all concluded. You will find us most industrious in this matter.

AZIRAPHALE nods, silently

EIGRUBER, rolling up the maps

Gentlemen, let it be done. The dynamite will be transferred to your offices immediately. Let me know when the work is complete.

AZIRAPHALE  
Brigadefuhrer, we will need to know the location of the largest reserve, for purposes of strategizing our own placement.

CROWLEY shoots a quick, approving look at the angel.

EIGRUBER unrolls one of the maps, pointing at a spot within the main cavern  
We were especially clever here - the packages say, “Marble, Do Not Drop!”

AZIRAPHALE, chuckling mirthlessly  
Very clever!

**MIRACLE 4798: Heist Hitler**

As soon as they left Eigruber’s office and were out of sight of his Nazi guard, Crowley slumped, deeply.

“Ugh,” he said.

“Too evil even for you?” Aziraphale asked, mischievously.

“Too bloody smug!” Crowley said, not denying it. “So what’s the next step.”

“Get rid of the “marble” and be at the ready to close the entrances!” The angel said emphatically.

“Should we close the entrances, though?” Crowley mused. “Will it make it too hard for the humans to retrieve things?”

“We may have to continue to prod them, especially those goofy Americans. They mean well, but they aren’t the sharpest tools in the garden shed.”

“Might as well close them, I guess. Don’t want Eigruber to think better of it and do any damage…” Crowley turned to the angel. “Would you object if I took a little memento before we closed the entrance?”

“What did you have in mind?” Aziraphale asked, more curiously than disapprovingly. “Technically, that would be stealing…”

“Oh, come off it! We are literally saving all the more precious artistic works in Europe! And you’d deny me one little…”

“I didn’t say I would deny you anything, Crowley dear.”

That shut the demon up. Satan, he was glad he saved those books for Aziraphale.

**DENOUEMENT: A Revealing Statue**

It was going to be a pain to get out of the tunnel. But it was just as he remembered, and it was undoubtedly The Thing that he wanted out of this vast Nazi trove. Despite being carved of marble, it was impossibly delicate-looking, not a Bernini, but like a Bernini. He would find a place to put it back in London, where the light shone down unexpectedly. A beacon in a dark place.

The mine worker who had been bribed an obscene sum to pack and transport it out looked askance at the statue.

“What?” Crowley demanded.

“It’s pretty, but I don’t get it - and I don’t have to!” the worker added quickly, noting a certain look in his new employer’s eye.

“It represents good and evil wrestling, with evil triumphing,” Crowley explained impatiently.

Leave it to humans not to understand their own art.

The worker paused wrapping the statue base, and squinted again.

“Are you certain that they’re wrestling?”


End file.
